


echoes in the light

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ended up with some slightly unintended angst at the end there, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 07:46:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14869620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Sansa shouldn't be jealous of her uncle, but she was. She just didn't realize Petyr would be jealous of her, too.





	echoes in the light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jonarya786](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonarya786/gifts).



> Sentence starter prompt on tumblr (2 of them): “Wait a minute, are you jealous?” and “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified”
> 
> [For the lovely jonarya786. I’m not really sure if this is what you imagined, but I hope it’s good enough? (also: written at like 2am and too tired to edit, so forgive me if there’s blatant errors)]

 

           “Wait a minute, are you  _ jealous _ ?”

           Sansa wanted to punch the smile off of her uncle’s face. The same crooked smile that only pulled one corner of his mouth up. The same smile that, on more than one occasion, sent a wonderful storm of butterflies deep in her stomach, traveling further down. Except, that would be giving in to his teasing. And that’s what Petyr saw it as: teasing. A bit of banter between an uncle and his niece. Nothing serious.

           Only, Sansa  _ was _ jealous. Actually jealous. And she hated the creeping idea  _ why _ she was.

           “No,” she replied, but it sounded false. She couldn’t even look him in the eye as she said it. “You’re a grown man. Why should I be jealous who you date?”

           “Because you are.” But the smile was gone. Petyr was good (too good) at knowing what Sansa was thinking (plenty of evidence from late-night rendezvous attested to that). But the same couldn’t be said about him. Though Sansa liked to think she knew what her uncle was thinking, she didn’t. Not especially not, when she flitted her gaze to his, and saw an odd mix of emotions playing over his face. 

           “Am not.”

           “You are.” Petyr looked out the window, and Sansa followed his gaze. Her family was out there, enjoying the sudden warm day amidst all the rain.  _ Let’s have a barbecue _ , her mother exclaimed, sending Ned out with the boys for grilling supplies. A fine idea, Sansa loved it when her father cooked; he had an entire cupboard of spice blends he was experimenting with, and Sansa couldn’t deny each of them were delicious no matter how often she teased him. 

           Sounded like a fine day.  _ Oh, and let’s invite your uncle Petyr. I’m sure he and Robin would appreciate the company _ .

           Because their aunt passed away earlier this year, and no one wanted to believe Petyr was anything but a grieving widow.

           A grieving widow who was fucking his niece? Oh, that was an even harder truth to acknowledge.

           Robert was out there, playing with Rickon and Bran (and Arya, too, even if she was in that phase thinking she was too cool to be playing with  _ babies _ . She was only a few years older than the rest of them). He was an excuse for Petyr to come around in his time of grief. Not that he needed help taking care of Robert; there were nurses plenty in the Vale to help out whenever the boy fell into a crying bout. And women plenty willing to throw themselves at Petyr for his wealth (and maybe for the boy, though Sansa heard tales of Robert hitting the future-Mrs Baelishes until they left. He wanted his mother, and she was six feet under the ground).

           At least Robert had more than enough grief for the both of them.

           “And did you ever think I was?”

           That brought Sansa back, staring at Petyr who had been staring at her. For how long, she couldn’t say. “You were…what?”

           “Jealous.” Said as matter-of-factly as possible. “Of  _ you _ .”

           “But…”

           “...why would I be?” He chuckled, more at himself. “I wish I knew, sweetling.” Petyr looked at her leg, and decided it needed his hand on top of. Sansa did her best to ignore the shiver that walked down her spine at the contact, but she couldn’t. 

           The last time Sansa saw her uncle (at least, apart from their recent bout in the bathroom just now. She ran her fingers through her hair again, hoping it looked just enough not-freshly-fucked) when a woman with too much boobs and too little dress was clinging on her uncle in the restaurant. One that Sansa hadn’t wanted to go to not at all because she knew Petyr would be there (she didn’t), but because she thought it was  _ too much _ for her boyfriend. He waved it off as if he were oozing money, but Harry was just as much the broke college kid as she was.

           But the minute Sansa saw her uncle there with Boobs, she wanted nothing less than to run away.

           She was facing them (as the gods would have it), and Harry joined in with a bit of banter about seeing her uncle so far from home (he was, wasn’t he?). Sansa wasn’t blind to see Harry’s gaze was on Boob’s boobs, but that was fine. Sansa didn’t really care for Harry; nice, and a good enough kisser for when she had wicked thoughts of another man ( _ man _ , yes, because Petyr was at least double her age). She never wanted them both in the same room at once, because Sansa worried she’d have to pick. As cliche as that was.

           It was obvious by where her gaze lingered the whole night. She wanted to rip the trilling  _ Told you so _ voice in her head out.

           Petyr ran into her on her way to the bathroom, and Sansa did her best to play it off nonchalantly (“Oh! Petyr, I didn’t realize you were here!”). He did, and called her out on her lie as he pulled her into the uni bathroom. He fucked her against the wall, pressing against her body so hard it hurt, and Sansa was thankful for that. She wanted it to hurt. And she wanted to hurt him for bringing Boobs; Sansa opened the top buttons of his shirt, dipping her fingers into his collar and digging her nails deep into his back as he thrusted in her.

           Petyr nudged the strap of her dress away, biting her until he left a mark. Small but noticeable enough, just on the edge of the fabric that one errant movement would have Harry knowing she was fucking someone else. That (maybe) she belonged to someone else.

           The thrill had her orgasming faster than she wanted. 

           Sansa hadn’t said a word about the restaurant today (when she next saw Petyr since). Sometimes she forgot it happened, and maybe she wanted to play it off like it had. Not the fucking (he was too damn good at that, toying with her clit in the perfect rhythm to make her release that much better). But the gods-damned storm in her head. And the one in her chest.

           He played the uncle all afternoon, until not ten minutes ago when he fucked her  _ right here _ in the kitchen, watching her family outside through the window. They wouldn’t be able to see unless they really looked.

           Oblivious to the sin blackening Sansa’s purity.

           “Do you think I liked seeing that boy over you?” Petyr said, pulling Sansa’s thoughts back to his words and not the tingling between her legs, or the bruises on her stomach.

           “You mean... _ Harry _ ?” And caught before she said them:  _ Harry is nothing, really _ .

           Petyr matched her other knee, both hands resting too lightly on her legs, thumbs brushing the insides. It was  _ almost _ sinful. Ignoring, of course, the fact that they had just pried apart her legs and knew their way around – inside – her cunt. “Is that his name?”

           Sansa scoffed. “You’ve met him before. He’s come around to some parties.”

           Petyr’s thumbnails dug against the bone, and Sansa did her best to ignore it. “I’ve  _ seen _ him, but I don’t talk with him. I’d rather take a kick in the balls than deal with that boy. Although, Cat’s fond of the fool. Playing her just right. She thinks a bit of boyish charm has done you wonders, did you know. Making you happy all that nonsense.” He looked straight at her, with the unsaid  _ But we all know who’s really the one making you come, don’t we? _

           “Maybe he is the one making me happy.” It was fire she was toying with, but she couldn’t help herself. 

           The rest of Petyr’s nails joined in, leaving ten deep crescents in her skin.

_ Stop _ . But Sansa continued. “He’s good for me. And Harry’s my age, at least, so we can go out to dinners and movies and kiss without people staring.”  _ Without people pointing fingers and claiming what we’re doing is a sin, no matter how good it feels _ .

           Fire, oh yes, Sansa was stoking it out of Petyr. He pushed her back in her chair, the granite island cold and digging into her back. It was a good hurt. Petyr’s hands were beneath her skirt, tugging away her underwear and dipping into her cunt in one motion. Sansa moaned – at his touch, at the fact that she was (or maybe always had been) wet for him. 

           His lips were on her, too. Bruising hers as he forced her back to arch painfully until she felt the counter hit the back of her head. She gasped, and Petyr took the opportunity to shove his tongue inside her mouth. 

           She was rolling her hips against his hand – two fingers inside her, one strumming her clit. Sansa pulled his sweater loose from his pants (he’d only just tucked it back in after their first fuck), tracing the faint ridges of where her nails had scratched his skin. Up the bones of his spine, until Sansa dug her fingers in beneath the shifting skin of his shoulder blades as he fucked her.

           Petyr pulled his mouth away, and his hands. Cold slithered up between her thighs. Sansa held him fast, feeling his muscles fighting against her. “Don’t...” Damn her body for making her say the truths when all she wanted to do was set them alight. 

           “ _ You _ don’t bring up that fucker’s name again,” Petyr said, lifting her ass up enough to sneak his fingers beneath and dig into her flesh. Sansa fought – and lost – against the moan when Petyr pressed against the fresh bruises. She hoped he’d give her more. For her  _ disobedience _ , for her outburst. For the fact that he knew just as much as she did that she was playing with a dangerous flame, and Petyr had all the rights to burn  _ her _ alight. 

           “Who?” she said, rolling her ass against his hands. “Harry? Harry, Harry, Harry–"

           He pushed the tip of his thumb inside her asshole.

           Sansa breathed– “ _ Fuck _ ” –as he pressed it in a fraction further. It hurt like hell – and she knew he wouldn’t actually fuck her ass without lube, Petyr was a  _ kind sinner _ for that. Petyr eased the pain by pressing his cock against her cunt, shadowing the hurt with the budding need.

           “Don’t. I  _ told  _ you not to.” His voice was stern, and he emphasized it with a rough thrust against her. Sansa winced as she felt his thumb go in another fraction. She didn’t even stop the voice that was whispering so lovingly:  _ You deserve it. The pain, the hurt. You deserve it all _ .

_ Because you know better. _

_ Because you shouldn’t be lusting after your uncle. You shouldn’t be letting him do all these things to do. You shouldn’t ever have let him give you your eighteenth birthday present, with the lights off and the curtains drawn, the house blissfully unaware. _

           But she did.

           And again she did. Again. Again. Again.

           Petyr pulled her so her ass was hanging off the edge of the chair, and she was held up only by his hands. Sansa wrapped her legs as best she could around him, pulling him into her, against her. She realized he wasn’t moving his hips like she was, but she felt (so far away) her building orgasm.

           It moved further away when Petyr said, “Break up with him.”

           “Wh- _ what _ ?”

           Petyr’s eyes were dark – they were always dark, least of all when he was teasing her, playing with her. But this was a darkness Sansa hadn’t seen before. A quiet fire, as hot and burning all the same. “You deserve better, sweetling. He’s not good enough for you.”

           “Why do you  _ care _ !?” she spat out, rubbing herself against him through his pants. The fabric was coarse against her tender skin, but it helped. Sometimes, she liked it better this way. It was the desperation of release, she told herself. It was the fear of being found out, the need to hurry up and run into the waves.

           But she knew the answer to her own question. 

_ Don’t say it _ .

           And she wished she didn’t know.

_ Say it _ .

           She couldn’t honestly say which she wanted to hear.

           It would have been better if Petyr dropped her and walked away. It wouldn’t be the first time he left Sansa high and needy. But  _ this _ . Gods, this was so much worse.

           Petyr’s voice was so steady, so unshaking, that Sansa knew it was true. “I think I’m in love with you, sweetling. And...and I’m terrified.”

           Sansa didn’t know what to say. What  _ could _ she say? 

           Not  _ love _ .

           “Why?” It was a stupid question, one that she regretted passing her lips. But it was out there, for her uncle to assess.

           “Why do I love you?”

           Sansa didn’t want to hear that, either. The thought alone was suffocating her heat between her ribs “No. Why are you terrified?”

           Her question brought the faintest curl of a smile to his lips, but the fury in his eyes remained. “Your parents liked me well enough when Lysa had been alive. Dead, well, they tolerate me more for Robert’s sake. But if they were to walk in on  _ this _ –" he gestured with his chin at the sorry state they were in, finding something in it funny enough to laugh at. “Oh, sweetling...”

           “Then…” Sansa began. It was a stupid idea in her head, but she let it go. “...don’t.

           Petyr stared at her.

           Sansa went on, ignoring the pleas in her head to stop making it worse. “Don’t love me. Don’t…just don’t.” She carefully shunted herself back up onto the chair, and Petyr let loose of her ass. She wanted to tell him  _ no _ , but at least that she kept away from spoken. “Like you said, it’s too complicated. And it could never work. And it’s not really–" she couldn’t say love, "–it’s just sex. Just sex. So. Please.”

_ Please don’t make me admit, too, what I don’t want to _ .

           “I don’t think I can do that. Not anymore, Sansa.”

_ Sansa _ .

           His words went on ceaselessly in her head:  _ I think I’m in love with you I think I’m in love with you. _

_ In love. _

_ With you. _

_ You. _

           “I…” she began, and she realized she wasn’t staring at him. As though her eyes would betray her: the truth was writ plainly there, Petyr told her once. It was so much easier to read sadness (or the falsehood of it), or desire (how often she saw it in her uncle,  _ especially _ at times when there shouldn’t be a flutter of it).

           Sansa didn’t want to look up and see the truth of his words echoed in mossy green.

           “I… I need to go. I need to think. I…” Her words wouldn’t work. “I need a walk. Some air.”

           After some long seconds, he nodded. Petyr moved away, righting his clothes and assessing the mess of his pants. Letting her go. She did, fixing herself up as Sansa listened to the heavy silence between them. A glance back: Petyr was idling, combing fingers through his hair over and over again. She didn’t look in his eyes, but she saw his own words that wouldn’t work, stuck in his throat behind his confession.

           Or, maybe he didn’t want to make more a mess than he had already.

 


End file.
